Ride Hard

I open the basement door, the musty scent of age and mold, dirt and dampness instantly wafting around me. The light’s off. So I reach out and flick it on, a muted yellow glow illuminating the old stairs.

I stand there for a moment and just stare down, afraid of what greets me downstairs, wondering if I’m making a huge mistake. This could end badly if I screw this up, but then again, it’s already fucked up, isn’t it?

I push past my fear and uncertainty and take that first step, then another and another, until I’m standing at the bottom, looking into the darkness, unable to see much of anything. There’s only one glass block window off to the side. It’s tiny, the glass cloudy, so you can’t see out of it. But it’s night out and the glow from the moon barely comes through.

“Hello?” I murmur softly and take a step toward the darkness. I hear shuffling to my right, swallow past the lump in my throat, and go over to the wall to flick the light on.

The yellow glow fills the dank space, and I instantly see him. He’s sitting on the floor, his back pressed to the wall, his hands behind his back. There’s a chain wrapped around his waist that’s attached to a metal support beam to his side, keeping him stationed and not giving him more than two feet of lead.

He’s only about ten feet from me, and I feel my eyes widen when I have a really good look at him. He’s huge, with his legs stretched out in front of him, his feet tied together with a rope. His shoulders are broad, his arms huge and muscular. He’s wearing jeans that are now dirty, no doubt from being on this nasty-ass dirt floor. The white shirt he wears is just as grimy-looking, and the patch on his leather vest shows he’s the president of the MC.

Goddammit, Einstein.

I feel tiny compared to him, like an ant that would be crushed under the heel of his boot.

“I… I brought you something to eat and drink.” I hold up the plate and cup as a peace offering. I glance up at the ceiling, where I know Einstein is still sleeping. When I look back at the man, he still has his focus trained right on me, his eyes seeming dark, like black pools.

He wants to hurt me; that much I can see instantly. Yeah, I can only imagine the things he’s thinking about, all the violent acts he probably wants to do to me.

I inhale slowly and take a step toward him… and then another one. I don’t get more than five feet before I stop and crouch, setting the plate on the ground and sliding it toward him. I do the same with the cup, a little bit of the water sloshing over the rim. But I realize his hands are tied behind his back and there’s no way he can eat.

“If you promise not to hurt me, I can untie your hands so you can eat.”

He doesn’t speak for long seconds, doesn’t even move. I want to take a step back, realizing how foolish this idea is. But then he shifts and pulls himself up a little bit more. I watch him lean to the side, showing me his bound hands. For a second, I just stand there and look at them, his fingers long, those hands masculine. How many people has he caressed with them? It’s a thought out of nowhere, but I can’t help but wonder just the same. He wouldn’t caress me. No, I imagine he would wrap them around my throat the first chance he got.

I look around the basement for something to cut the rope and see a pair of gardening shears off to the side. They’re rusted, probably dull as hell, but right now it’s the best I have. But then I realize I need something sharp, something more intimidating.

I need something that might scare him enough to not hurt me.

I almost snort at that thought. No doubt nothing scares him.

I go back upstairs, grab a butcher knife, and make my way back down to where he is, holding it up as if warning him that if he doesn’t, I’ll slit his throat. Of course, I won’t. I can’t. The very idea of hurting him, or someone in general, makes me sick to my stomach.

“Please don’t hurt me. I don’t want to use this on you,” I whisper softly, but he doesn’t move or speak, just stays to the side so I can still see his hands.

My movements are slow as I go toward him, and when I’m a couple feet from where he sits, I keep my gaze on him as I reach out with a knife and slip it under the rope. I don’t cut it right away, just stare at him, his eyes locked on mine. He’s got a couple days’ worth of growth on his cheeks and jaw, his dark hair short and messy around his head.